My eyes are cut,
my mind a whir of massive black fog.
The fog doesn't want to keep control --
IT wants to destroy!
I stay alone so as to not smack and cuss and scream.
But as the hour closes, that is all my hypothalamus really craves.

I have anger and corruption milling just below my
thin surface
-- just past my facade.
And it is hungry.

I do not feed it the happiness of the people around me,
or the pity; it craves dark influences
as a wolf craves fresh blood.
Everyone finally takes notice if my control beings to slip --
so stealthily, it morphs into my eyes,
my fists,
the turned down corners of my mouth
and my flexed jaw.
IT swallows my passion, my carefree,
and the products of this assimilation show themselves to be:
forever lonely, and regretful.
I get abandoned for the lack of sane life in my eyes;
no one loves a brooder.

And they just dont' see me --
no one person has seen my true ANGER, my pleas
and desperation
for some livelihood of appreciation and companionship.
It's not brooding; I plot.

And perhaps some day, soon,
I will lay in that plot,
as cold and gray as stone,
as a corpse,
finally at rest in peace.